Skies of Arcadia Chronicles
by Exile1
Summary: The ongoing adventures of Vyse's colourful crew. This Episode: Robinson struggles to come to terms with the years of solitude spent in the dark rift, bringing him to the point of madness
1. Restless Hunter I

SKIES OF ARCADIA CHRONICLES  
  
Episode One: Restless Hunter I  
  
Disclamer: To my everlasting dismay, I do not own Skies of Arcadia, nor any of its affiliated characters and locales. Bugger.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Somewhere in Southern Nasr  
  
"Domingo-remind me again," yelled Lawrence over his shoulder, trying to be heard over the roar of the wind. "Just how we got into this situation?!?"  
  
Domingo pursed his lips and gave no answer. He made a strong effort to keep his widened eyes squarely focussed on the Black Pirate ship pursuing them, and not on the desert speeding past them below. Somehow, that lessened the stomach-churning effect of Lawrence's desperate manoeuvring of the lifeboat in and out of range of their pursuer's cannons, whilst staying relatively close to the ground.  
  
Behind them, two more cannons boomed their deadly greetings, followed an instant thereafter by two sub-cannon shells impacting dully onto the sands of the desert below them. Domingo's eagle eyes, while not quite as renowned as those of the Ixa'takan Tikatika, were sufficient to note that the deadly projectiles had missed them by scant centimetres.  
  
Swallowing to moisten his suddenly-dry mouth, the great explorer Domingo forced his eyes back to the lifeboat and its occupants and bleakly assessed their chances of survival.  
  
Lawrence was bent over the wheel, staring fixedly ahead at the horizon whilst steering the lifeboat back and forth in a motion which, Domingo prayed, would keep their pursuers from scoring a direct hit on them. Domingo himself was crouched in the centre of the craft acting nominally as navigator, although the silent helmsman had yet to seek his guidance. In the back, near the engines and small storage area cowered Marco. The usually sharp-tongued Valuan had had little to say since the chase began, opting instead to cover his ears with his hands and mouth desperate prayers to the gods in the hope that they would intercede on their behalf.  
  
~So~, Domingo thought, glumly. ~One Delphinus lifeboat versus a fully armed Black Pirate ship crewed by bloodthirsty and single minded sons of bitches with a serious grudge against anyone even remotely associated with Vyse the friggin' legend.~  
  
~We are SO screwed~  
  
He experienced a moment of disorientation as Lawrence suddenly swerved the craft sharply to the left, around a particularly large sand-dune. He tumbled to the deck and glared up at the pilot, but any word of reproach died on his lips as two more cannonballs slammed into the sand of the dune. Lawrence's manoeuvre had placed it squarely between them and the ship, saving them from another direct hit. Domingo privately put off his rebuke. Never antagonise a man whose skill is quite possibly the only barrier between yourself and certain death.  
  
Instead, he rose to his knees and gripped the side the lifeboat, squinting his eyes against the onrushing wind. The ship came once again into view and Domingo cursed as he noticed once again that it did not appear to be straining itself in keeping up with them.  
  
He spat over the side, taking care to do so in the direction of the wind and cursed his ill fortune. How HAD it come to this anyway?  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Crescent Island, three days previously.  
  
"So.so I'm in North Ocean, right? Been travelling for nearly two weeks in a medium sized sailboat captained by an incompetent, but hey, at least I'm there, right? Following me so far?"  
  
Across the table, the navigator Don nodded once before taking a sip from his pint-glass. He wiped his curved moustache with the back of one hand and indicated with said glass for his companion to continue.  
  
At the opposite side of the table, Domingo the once-renowned treasure hunter took an impressive swig of his own loqua and leaned forward slightly. "Now, I didn't have much to go on-just the ramblings of a more- than-a-bit inebriated sailor in one of the seedier parts of Nasrad. But hey, even drunken jackasses are good for something, I guess."  
  
Don decided to let that one pass, and took a slightly deeper pull of his loqua. Besides, Domingo had had a bit much himself, from the look of it, and he refrained from politely enquiring as to what Domingo had been doing in such an undesirable part of Nasrad anyway. At the other end of the tavern, Polly glared at them both as Domingo had another quaff before continuing.  
  
"Anyway, I following his directions and then, as night fell, I spotted 'em! On a large island to our east, I saw beautiful lights in the sky, ducking and diving like kids at play! Will 'o wisps, they were, and they were a SIGHT. Reminded me why I got into this business in the first place."  
  
Another gulp. The glass was now half-empty, and Domingo had thus far shown no signs of slowing down. "Hell of a job to get the captain's fat ass out of bed and convince him to set sail for the lights, but we somehow got there without his rotting junk-heap falling to pieces in the process."  
  
Another gulp. They had become intermingled with Domingo's punctuation throughout the course of the conversation.  
  
"We put ashore, had a look around, but it was dawn by the time we'd got inland enough to get to them, nimble little buggers that they were. We couldn't see them when it got lighter, but we DID see something else."  
  
Don took another sip from his own stein and leaned forward expectantly. The conversation wouldn't have been nearly so interesting had Domingo been of sounder mind.  
  
"Weeeeeell." Domingo enunciated the monosyllabic word with an exaggerated expression of chagrin. "We saw a plaque. Quite new, hadn't even begun to rust. And it rains a LOT in North Ocean." Another swig. "And do you know, kind sir, exactly what this plaque SAID?"  
  
Don rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply, but Domingo's glass was suddenly slammed down onto the table, sending flying a few of the flecks of foam that were all that remained of its contents. Domingo himself shot up and roared: "It said 'WILL 'O WISPS-FIRST DISCOVERED BY VYSE, KING OF ROGUES!" Domingo bellowed, hoarsely. "JANUARY 13th, 1512 A.R.!"  
  
Don leaned back, away from the outburst, although he'd seen it coming. He'd had the foresight to put down his own glass a moment before, for fear that Domingo's furious tirade would cause Don to spill his own loqua. "So.you're upset that Vyse got there first?"  
  
Domingo blinked at him for a frozen second, before sitting back down with a thump and slamming a clenched fist on the table, rattling the two loqua glasses thereon. "Goddamnit, Don! Aren't you listening?!? Vyse had been there-and made off with the treasure that some long-forgotten Black Pirate had buried there for safekeeping!"  
  
Don raised an eyebrow. This was news to him. "Treasure?" he echoed, his interest now piqued.  
  
"Sure! Perfect place for it, eh? So many islands in North Ocean-what better place to hide a stash than the one with the inexplicable light circling over it? It's the perfect marker."  
  
He gesticulated lazily with his right hand, flicked his fingers, then peered closely at them, apparently marvelling that there were, in fact, five of them. Don narrowed his eyes, considered his next words and took the plunge, trying to keep in mind that he was, in fact, arguing with someone considerably more inebriated than himself.  
  
"Dom," he began, cautiously. "Vyse was in a bit of a hurry when he went through there. I don't think he really had time to go nosing about for a few black pirate trinkets, if there even were any. Black Pirates end up drinking most of their share of the loot anyway. Did you consider that maybe there never was any treasure?" As he spoke, Domingo lapsed further and further into silence, an encouraging sign, so Don thought. "Besides, what happened to the spirit of adventure, anyway? 'Because its there' and all that?"  
  
At that last comment, Domingo pushed his chair back, rose to his feet very slowly (and unsteadily), put his hands on his hips and glared down at the navigator. "Spirit of Adventure?" he echoed mockingly. "Try paying the rent with THAT, why doncha?" Don opened his mouth to reply, but Domingo ploughed on regardless. "That whole 'because it's there' crap'll get you in the history books alright, if that's what you're into. But I'm a bloody treasure hunter, Don-o-a treasure hunter!"  
  
Behind Domingo, the door to the pub opened, admitting the establishment's last patron for the evening. Don casually glanced around Domingo's gesticulating form, and his eyes widened in stark terror. Across the room, Polly grinned in anticipation. Domingo pressed down onto the table with his fists, apparently to steady himself. "That means, mate,"-he swayed ever-so- slightly just then-"That I, y'know, hunt treasure!"  
  
The newcomer ambled over to their table, positioning himself behind Domingo and raising an eyebrow in curiosity. Don made a few frantic indications of his arrival to Domingo, who regarded him with an irritated glare. "Stop squirmin', man! Tryin' to talk to you, here! Anyways, treasure huntin's what I do, with all that comes wi' it. S' a lifestyle in an' of itself." He made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded halfway between a cough and burp and Don persisted in trying to alert the hapless explorer to the new presence in the pub without making it appear too obvious.  
  
"Which means," Domingo continued after a moment of cross-eyed thought. "Women, drink, gold, widespread admiration, women, recognition, gold." He waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever. You get the idea. And, mate," at this, he leaned forward conspirationally before proclaiming, in quite an audible voice. "I can't exactly continue that bleedin' lifestyle when bloody Vyse the bloody legend keeps making off with MY treasures and MY discoveries-"  
  
And behind him, someone cleared his throat impatiently. Domingo froze, and his expression became inscrutable. Were it not for a slight widening of his eyes, one would not have been able to discern that the phrase "Oh, bloody HELL" had just then begun to loop itself through his mind. It was nicely complimented by Don's own frozen mask of horror.  
  
Domingo took a deep breath, straightened up and spun around, grinning manically. "Ah, Cap'n Vyse! THERE you are!"  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
"-But Captain! We're in the middle of nowhere!"  
  
Leaning casually on the railing of the Delphinus' outer deck, Vyse of the Blue Rogues grinned down at the source of the supplicant whine. A few metres away from the ship, and slightly below Vyse's direct line of vision, Domingo stood unsteadily in one of the Delphinus' jolly boats, frantically waving his arms. At the wheel, considerably more stable on his feet, stood the silent Lawrence whilst near the back of the little, the Valuan street urchin Marco made equally frantic gestures in Vyse's direction.  
  
"Exactly," Vyse cheerfully called down to the hapless explorer. He pointed into the distance, where the late afternoon sun illuminated the dunes of the distant Nasr shore. "No one's really explored this part of the desert. There could be treasures untold out there, Domingo. Could be just the thing to quiet that big mouth o' yours!"  
  
Domingo could do nothing but stare stupidly at him, but Marco piped up in his stead. "'Ere!" he bellowed at his captain. "If 'e's the one who shot 'is mouth off, why'm I in 'ere with 'im?"  
  
"I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that, Marco," Vyse chuckled in return. "I'll just say this-Khalifa wasn't too pleased with what you did to her tent, y'know."  
  
"Wasn't my fault it burned down," Marco protested sulkily. "Didn't know it was flammable, like."  
  
"It was silk, Marco," Vyse reminded him. "Of course its bloody flammable."  
  
That seemed to quiet him, and Lawrence took advantage of the lull to raise a questioning hand.  
  
"And you're down there because Marco can't steer and Domingo'll be too busy scanning EACH AND EVERY INCH of the desert for something to make this little impromptu expedition worthwhile, Lawrence," Vyse said smoothly. "So you'll ferry 'em around without complaint, thanks. For what I'm paying you, it's the very least you can do."  
  
He gave a short, unclassifiable little laugh and gave a thumbs-up to Don, watching the exchange from the Bridge one story above them, who nodded in response and began barking orders into the speaking tube which kept him in touch with Brabham in the engine room. Then Vyse turned back to the reluctant band of wayfarers and said, in all seriousness; "We'll be back here in four days, after we finish up in Esperanza. Try not to die of thirst or anything"-this he truly meant in jest; he'd made sure the storage locker in the back of the jolly boat was well stocked-"And Domingo-when we come back, you and me are going to have a little talk about getting piss- assed drunk and then slagging off the captain behind his back. Cheers. And by the way, I DO expect my prized lookout to have found something when we come back."  
  
He strode off back inside and shut the hatch behind him. Lawrence and Marco stared mutely at their ship as it slowly swung away from them and continued on to the south. Then they turned as one toward their snappily dressed companion and glared murderously at him. Domingo returned their glare with a baleful one of his own and spread his arms in frustration.  
  
"What? What?"  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
~Aaaaaah, yes. That's right,~ Domingo mused ruefully, a few more shots from the pursuing black pirate jerking him back to the present. ~We're in this situation because I'm a real asshole when I'm dru-~  
  
And then the shots hit home. Marco yelped in surprise, more than horror, as the impact from the cannon shells striking the rear of the craft caused it to jolt spasmodically up. Domingo acted without thinking, one slender arm snapping around and seizing the boy by the back of his cotton shirt. It was a timely move, and prevented the suddenly violently erratic motion of the jolly boat from simply bucking the boy out like water from a pail.  
  
Pushing the boy against the narrow rail rimming the edge of passenger area until he had it clasped tightly in his own death grip, Domingo turned towards their Helmsman. It was on the tip of his tongue to bark some unnecessary, if frantic, request for evasive manoeuvres. But the words died on his lips as the fumes from the irreparably damaged engine reached his nose.  
  
It was then that he noticed that, despite Lawrence's best efforts, the nose of the lifeboat steadfastly refused to dip upwards. And the desert, it seemed, was rushing upward at an uncomfortable rate... 


	2. Restless Hunter II

DISCLAIMER: I most certainly do NOT own Skies of Arcadia or Skies of Arcadia Legends, nor its affiliated characters, situations and locales. I think that covers it, but if I missed something, I'm sure ye get the general idea.  
  
A/N: Many thanks to all my reviewers, and sorry about the loooong delay, eh? Cheers.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
Episode Two: Restless Hunter II  
  
As consciousness slowly returned, the pain of the ropes cutting into his wrists became more acute, serving to pull him even further into wakefulness. It wouldn't have hurt quite so much, had he not apparently been hung from the ceiling by his wrists so that the tips of his boots barely scraped the floor.  
  
"'ere-I reckon he be comin' around, Cap'n."  
  
The voice sounded harsh to his ears, and only served to remind that aside from the pain in his wrists, he also had to deal with the dubious blessing of a splitting headache.  
  
"Excellent," another voice broke in, from behind him. "You may leave, Boothe. I'll call ye when I need ye."  
  
There was a grunt of assent, then the heavy sound of someone shuffling out of the room. He kept silent, a chill beginning to spread through his heart. He thought he recognised the second voice, although he prayed to all the six moons that he was mistaken. Better some unknown privateer than.  
  
"Wake up, Larry-me-lad," came the voice again, and this time there was no mistaking it. "Not that ye aren't awake as it is. Ye can't fool me, boy. Y'never could."  
  
Slowly, the usually mute helmsman raised his aching head, willed his heavy eyelids open, focussed his light-blinded eyes onto the face of the man addressing him and answered, coolly: "I prefer 'Lawrence.'"  
  
The grizzled, bearded face of his unwelcome companion broadened into a mocking grin. "Oooh," he said, feigning awe before breaking into a low chuckle. "Aren't WE posh, now? I c'n still remember a time when I could call ye what I wished and make ye feel the back o' my hand if'n ye didn't grant me yer undivided attention."  
  
"Indeed," he replied, with a calmness he most certainly did NOT feel. "That was rather a long time ago, as I recall, Baltor."  
  
Baltor, still chuckling, set himself down into a creaking, heavily ornate high-backed chair, probably booty from some raid. "Not all that long ago, lad. So"-he leaned forward, put both hands onto his knees and regarded his captive with an intent stare. "How exactly is it that I find ye in a lifeboat from the ship o' me greatest enemy, an' kicking around my Nasr stompin' grounds? An' don't try to dissemble with ME."  
  
Lawrence let the silence following that question linger for a while before answering, stiffly, "That's not your business, Baltor."  
  
An instant later, his head was bowed and his teeth clenched against the throbbing in his cheek. Baltor's blow had been a combination of slap and punch and Lawrence cursed himself for not expecting it. His time in Vyse's crew had made him SOFT, curse it! Beside him, a voice purred with menace: "Now, lad, is that any way to treat your old cap'n? Honestly, I ask simple question n' all I get is stroppy backchat. Tsk."  
  
"That's strictly confidential," Lawrence replied through gritted teeth. In response, Baltor seized his thick mop of hair and forced his head up to look at him. He tried again, deliberately making his voice sound arrogant and haughty. "Wouldn't want to jeopardise my relationship with my client."  
  
At this, Baltor released his hair and allowed his body to convulse with laughter. "'Client'?" he wheezed in between peels. "Ye mean he PAYS ye to fly his ship? Hah! I do recall when a crust of bread and a warm spot to sleep was enough, but now ye get paid?!? Can't let this get out. Hah! I'd have a bloody mutiny on my hands!" He roared with laughter again, his cabin resonating with it. When he was finished, Lawrence had recovered from the earlier sucker punch and was glowering at him, his fear gradually becoming mixed in with new anger. In return, Baltor regarded him with an amused, infuriating stare. "So, does that mean I c'n make ye a counteroffer and then ye'd work for me?"  
  
"Not on your life," Lawrence spat, and was rewarded with a furious punch to the belly. He saw it coming this time, but in his present, bound position there was little he could have done to steel himself against it. He slumped, gasping for breath, as Baltor massaged his fist, glancing at him thoughtfully.  
  
"I'll put it simply, Larry," he said, quietly, all the humour gone from his voice. "So pay attention. Finding ye on Vyse's crew changes ev'rything. Before, 'twas all I could do just to keep up wi' that flyin' fortress of his, let alone do any damage at all to it. But now"-He seized Lawrence's hair, forcing his face up. "But now-now I have an IN. Why fire useless cannon shells at the problem when ye can burrow inside it an' kill it off wi'out putting a mark on it yourself?"  
  
Lawrence spat at his captor, but the projectile missed its mark. He snarled instead, and replied, tightly, "You want me for your spy? Keep dreaming, Baltor. I'm done with you, and have been for three years. I'm not some hand you can have a go at with the Cat if I don't do our bidding."  
  
Baltor made a motion with his hand, causing Lawrence to flinch before he realised that the grizzled Black Pirate only intended to straighten his collar with it. He cursed his weakness once again. Baltor chuckled, delighting in the effect the tiny motion had had on the pilot. "I could kill the boy, y'know. And that flashy dandy wi' the telescope."  
  
~Ah!~ Lawrence thought, masking his relief with a grimace of disgust. ~They're alive! He hasn't killed them!~  
  
"Then do," Lawrence growled, coldly. "Marco's been ready to die since he was old enough to toddle, and you'd be doing the species a favour by making that idiot Domingo walk the plank. They mean bugger-all to me." Only the last part was a lie.  
  
"Ah. Marco an' Domingo. Those're their names, then?"  
  
~Shitshitshit~ he chastised himself. Baltor's knowledge of Lawrence's presence among Vyse's crew was bad enough without him learning the names of anyone else. He toyed with the idea of taking a stance of silent defiance, but said instead: "Besides. Right now, you're just a nuisance to the captain. Kill those two, and you'll turn him into your sworn enemy, and believe me, THAT is something you really, really want to avoid." He was exaggerating slightly, of course. Although he'd certainly begun to grow into his new role, Vyse was hardly one given to fits of vengeful wrath.  
  
At this, the Black Pirate's grin resurfaced. "Heh. Shoulda known that threatening yer mates wouldn't move ye. It didn't back in the day, eh?"  
  
At this provocation, Lawrence's eyes widened in outrage and he tried to lunge forward at his tormentor. But his bonds held him back, and the way he was bound meant that he only injured himself, the ropes cutting even deeper into his flesh, almost enough to draw blood. Before him, a safe distance beyond the reach of the suddenly lively prisoner, Baltor laughed a full, throaty laugh and launched his foot firmly into Lawrence's throat. That checked his outburst, and he hung where he was, wide-eyed and coughing.  
  
Baltor sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers and regarded Lawrence thoughtfully. "Oh, I think ye'll help me out, Larry. Ye say ye're done with me, but I ain't done with you. Ye'll help me bring down Vyse, all right, one way or another. 'Til then," he snapped his fingers, summoning his burly mate back into the room. "I'm sure Boothe, here, will do his bit in bringin' ye 'round to my point o' view. Until then, try and remember how to show a bit 'o respect to the man who's got yer life in 'is hands."  
  
The lesson concluded, Baltor strode from the room, taking pleasure in the way Boothe's fists made soft, dull, satisfying thuds against Lawrence's helpless body.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Crikey, Domingo! That was bloody awesome!"  
  
Domingo clenched his teeth at Marco's incessant chatter and ran a finger along the circumference of another of the portholes that lined the brig in which they were incarcerated.  
  
"Mate, when we went down, I was sure it was curtains! I mean, Lawrence was down 'n 'alf buried in sand an' I was banged up pretty bad too."  
  
No good. The window was nailed shut, and had never been designed to allow for opening, much less a desperate escape. And of, course, there was the little matter of a straight-down plummet into deep sky should an escape attempt be made using that route.  
  
"An' then you leapt to yer feet, pulled out yer flintlocks an' said 'Stay back, lad. I'll handle these wankers!'"  
  
Domingo banged a palm against the porthole in frustration. He'd noted the somewhat manic edge to Marco's chatter, and he dreaded being reminded of what was coming up next in his chatter.  
  
"O' course," the urchin continued, his cheerfulness assuming a palpable edge. "Ye'd clean forgotten t' load the buggers when we set out from Crescent Isle, but 'ey-'tis the thought wot counts, innit?"  
  
Domingo growled, and spun around on the snot-faced little brat with some bleak threat already formed on his tongue. But Marco was saved from being blasted by the creak of the brig's hatch. It swung open inside and Domingo instinctively tensed to spring at the new arrivals before he noticed that the first newcomer had his hand perched on a particularly businesslike pistol in the sash which served as his belt.  
  
The newcomer regarded the two captives as they squinted in the light pouring into the brig from outside with a look of disdain, before motioning to someone behind him. At once, rough hands launched a purple and grey bundle down the three steps leading into the brig. It tumbled down them limply before coming to a halt in an untidy heap on the hardwood floor. The exhausted groan which escaped it was drowned out by the sound of the brig door slamming shut behind it.  
  
"Lawrence!" Domingo and Marco surged forward toward their comrade, turning him over and making him as comfortable as they could. Domingo noted with dismay the bruises and cuts which had joined his scar on his face. "Moons--- what did they do? What was the point of this?"  
  
"Our old mate---Baltor," Lawrence wheezed with some difficulty after a breathless moment. "Don't think he needs much of a reason, really." He rubbed a hand across his face, covering his eyes with it grimacing at even that small movement. "What day is it?"  
  
"Wednesday, I think," Domingo replied, with a small frown. "You thinkin' on waiting for the cap'n to come back? He'll only come through here again on Friday, and by then it'll be too late. I'm surprised we haven't left these skies already."  
  
From somewhere beneath the hair and the hand came a muffled chuckle. "Oh, they're setting off tomorrow for Maramba skies.only, we're not goin' with them."  
  
For a moment, Domingo allowed a moment of elation. Baltor had realised what kind of trouble he was in, kidnapping the hapless trio, and was setting them free! He was probably scared so shitless by now that he'd probably already tried to repair their jolly-boat. Hey, who knew? Maybe if they were quick, the three might actually be able to fulfil their mission and have some kind of discovery in their journals with which to buy back their captain's favour.  
  
Then Lawrence brushed his hair out of his eyes and stared glumly up at the ceiling, face pale and lips twisted into a rueful, ironic smirk.  
  
Marco's attention shifted in turn from Lawrence's curious expression to Domingo's look of dawning comprehensive horror and back again several times before venturing; "Does tha' mean Baltor's gonna plop us back down in the desert and leave us be, then?"  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Well, lads," Baltor purred at the three Delphinus crewmembers lined up before him. "The pleasure at 'aving ye off o' me ship is ALL mine, believe you me." He grinned a fetid grin at the three, who glared at him in stony silence, with even Marco managing to remain defiant. His belly shook with mocking laughter at them before he spun around and barked an order at his somewhat motley crew.  
  
"EXTEND THE PLANK!"  
  
Before him, the crew leapt into action, the speed at which they unearthed the three metre long, worm-riddled plank betraying their eagerness over the coming festivities. As they moved to set up the simple apparatus, Marco nudged Domingo uncertainly and quipped in a voice which quivered only slightly; "You first, mate."  
  
"Now, now, kid," Lawrence replied before Domingo could make any reassuring reply. "Women AND children first, remember?"  
  
Domingo spun on Lawrence with a glare, but Lawrence's face was grim and his eyes stared straight ahead at the busy black pirates, as if he was unaware that he had, possibly for the first time in his life, made a funny. Marco paled for a brief instant, before the years spent on the streets of Valua recalled him to his characteristic insubordinate defiance. He scowled at the grim helmsman and would most like have uttered an oath not normally found on the lips of one so young when he was interrupted by a cry of "Plank ready!" followed by "Ready, aye, ready!" The various air pirates clustered around the gap in the wooden railing through which the plank extended into the boundless sky beyond, with a space cleared to allow the first luckless victim of their chief form of weekend entertainment to proceed unhindered to his doom. All were grinning madly.  
  
Baltor himself paced grandly up and down before the trio, appraising the plank-walking suitability of each of them in turn. Finally, he extended a gnarled finger toward Marco. "You. Care f'r the honour o' being the first?"  
  
There was a moment of silence as Marco's inscrutable glare met Baltor's lazy smile. Then he made a great show of shrugging and made as if to step forward. And then suddenly Lawrence was in his way and the sound of flintlocks being cocked by the various pirates guarding the trio echoed through the air, carrying by a slight wind. Even Baltor felt sufficiently threatened to dart for his own sword before he realised that Lawrence had only moved to place himself between the boy and the pirate captain.  
  
"Hope you'll forgive me if I claim that honour for myself," Lawrence stated blandly, eyes focussed squarely on Baltor's face. He kept his hands squarely at his sides while the black pirate looked him up and down suspicious as various crewmembers kept weapons firmly trained at his head. Finally, the captain gave a disdainful snort and waved a hand in the direction of the plank. "Whatever, Lad. 'Tis all as one t' me."  
  
There was cheering and jeering on the part of the pirates as Lawrence walked jerkily forward, the rhythm of his pace interrupted by one particularly ratty-faced buccaneer insistently poking him between the shoulder-blades with a long, blunt pike. Behind him, Marco hurled obscenities at him and struggled against Domingo's grip as the increasingly ashen-faced explorer futilely attempted to prolong the boy's life as best he could.  
  
Then suddenly, he was on the plank, staring into the horizon. It was late afternoon, and the sun seemed to him just a fingernail above the horizon. The heat of the day had subsided and evening's chill had yet to sweep in from the South. He stood there, perfectly balanced and oblivious to the sheer depths over which he stood. Behind him, most of the crew crowded around the gap in the wooden rail through which the plank extended, and then that bloody rat-face poked him again, with that blasted pike.  
  
Afterwards, Domingo would say, as he told the tale, that Lawrence's movements had been too swift to see. Marco claimed the opposite, how the silent helmsman moved as if through treacle.  
  
However he did it, the rat-face was caught completely off-guard as Lawrence seemed to leap straight up, twist in mid-air and catch the end of the pike with one hand, jerking it forward. Then even before the pirate realised he'd be best served by simply letting go of his end, that same end was forcibly thrust backward, thrusting bluntly and painfully into the man's belly. He cried out, stumbling backward into the crowd behind him, whose brains had yet to grasp that they really ought to be doing something.  
  
Then Lawrence jerked the pike back out, let the far end fall just a little way down past the plank then used its inertia and all the strength he could muster to spin in place and bring it swinging around in painful arc, catching a good number of the pirates not yet knocked down by the rat-face a nasty knock. Then, when the crowd of black pirates who'd been so enthusiastically goading him to his death were in various states of disarray, he lowered the pike in front of him like a lance and charged.  
  
He roared his way off of the plank, stepping rudely on various pirates along the way, and sped straight toward the explorer and the street-urchin, who yelped and flung themselves out of the way. This was much to the consternation of the single pirate who'd been standing behind then on guard, as he found himself with a blunt pike sharply poking his chest, making him drop his pistols, backing him up to the rail opposite the plank and, inevitably, beyond.  
  
As the screams of their former guard receded as he plummeted to his death, Domingo wasted no time in picking up the discarded pistols---noting with delight that they weren't flintlocks, but the newer, repeating variety--- carefully aiming both at the fast-reorganising tangle of black pirates and squeezing the triggers. These, he noted with satisfaction as the pirates scattered about the deck as their captain ordered them at once to pull themselves together and to try to recapture the Delphinus crew alive, were most CERTAINLY loaded---  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
Shortly.  
  
It had been an interesting few minutes.  
  
It had started predictably enough. Domingo had regained his typical bluster the moment his hands were coiled around a pair of pistol handles. He bellowed some "all for one and one for all" gibberish at the pirates, who had sorted themselves out and had begun to circle the trio with increasingly determined looks on their faces. Once he'd finished what he presumably thought was an heroic oratory, he turned with a comradely grin to Lawrence. Lawrence had simply rolled his eyes, reached over, plucked a pistol out of Domingo's hand and, after taking careful aim, had fired a single shot into an unassuming cluster of barrels at one corner of the deck.  
  
The kilos of gunpowder contained therein had rather an adverse reaction to the bullet, and the explosion had the added effect of disorienting the black pirates even further, giving Lawrence the opportunity to snatch someone's sword and dive into the crowd, never making a sound even as Domingo showered his targets with a steady stream of invective. Marco and Lawrence excused this undignified behaviour: The man really WAS a good shot.  
  
And so it went, for a time, with Lawrence scything in and out of the too- bunched up black pirates and Domingo taking advantage of the confusion to pick them off at his leisure. He left his back wide open, of course, which could have turned the battle ugly quite easily if Marco hadn't somehow got a cannon unchained from its bearings and rolled it randomly across the deck with him astride it until it somehow went off. No one was hurt, save for the two pirates who had been about to surprise Domingo from behind, and the only major casualties had been the various stolen objets d'art which had decorated the cannon's target: the captain's cabin.  
  
But in the end, they were outnumbered, and it wasn't long before those frantic few minutes of activity came to an end, and the three luckless Blue Rogues found themselves on the foredeck with their backs to the bow facing the two dozen crewmembers who hadn't been sliced by Lawrence's sword, winged by Domingo's pistols or savaged by Marco's teeth. At their head stood Baltor, trembling with fury.  
  
"D'ye know how bloody long it took to build up that collection?!?" he roared, pointing a quivering hand in the direction of the still-smoking ruins of his cabin. "How many Valuan warships? Or merchant vessels?"  
  
"Gee, cap'n Vyse usually pays f'r HIS day-cor"  
  
"Shut up, boy!" He folded his arms across his chest and grinned, his slick, dangerous façade back in place. "Now. Put yer weapons down, all o' ye. And I'll go easy on yer."  
  
Lawrence spat over the side. "Oh, I see. Does that mean you'll blindfold us before making us walk the bloody plank again? Screw that, Baltor."  
  
"Yeah! You'll have to come and get us yourself, mate!" Domingo chimed in, levelling his pistols at the crowd of pirates in a heroic fashion. Lawrence refrained from informing his that he only had a couple of shots left. Marco rolled his eyes and put his face in his hands.  
  
Baltor nodded, slowly. "Fair enough," he growled, drawing his sword. He was about to raise it above his head in a signal to attack when the ominous whine of a cannon-shell tore through the air just a second before the Blackbeard shook from timber to timber.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Holy shit!" Vyse cried, leaning forward against the wheel as he watched in disbelief as the shell tore straight through the forward section of the ship below decks before ripping its way out the other side. Even in the dimming light, the damage was quite visible.  
  
He calmed himself somewhat, grabbed a speaking tube and barked into it. "Belle! When I said to fire a warning shot across the bow, I did NOT mean THROUGH the bow!"  
  
"Ack!" came the tinny, dismayed exclamation. "Sorry Cap'n!"  
  
"Right. Keep the guns trained on the Blackbeard, but don't fire again until I give the order!" He pushed the tube away from him and peered thoughtfully at the motionless ship, just barely making out his three crewmen, mostly thanks to Domingo's bright orange jacket.  
  
Beside him, Aika his vice-captain shook her head wryly and grinned before asking "So, Vyse-we gonna be doing some boarding or what?"  
  
Vyse flashed her a smile of his own. "What-board that yellow-bellied, thieving jackal, Baltor?" He turned his gaze back to their quarry, where tongues of flame had begun to spill from the hole in the hull. The captain's quarters seemed to have been displaced as well. "Nah. I think after this afternoon, Baltor'll only be too glad to get those three off his hands without any prodding from us--"  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Ye three! Head belowdecks and get those flames out! You! Secure the cargo on that deck! And as for you-What the hell d'ye want, Boothe?!?"  
  
Baltor ceased bellowing orders long enough to glare murderously at his second in command, who meekly pointed in the direction of their three captives, who seemed to be standing around aimlessly, quite at a loss as to what to do now that no one seemed to want them dead anymore.  
  
Baltor stared thoughtfully at them, meeting Lawrence's inscrutable glare. Then suddenly he burst out into a grin, as if he suddenly felt that all was not lost after all. "We'll simply do what needs t' be done, Boothe," he answered, grip tightening on his sword before he bellowed out a new order.  
  
"Hoist the truce flag!"  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
"-And if I catch you doing shit like this again, Baltor, I'll bloody well SINK your goddamned ship," Vyse finished, leaning on the railing of the Delphinus and glaring sternly at Baltor, who stood on the deck of his own ship hanging dead in the sky a few feet away looking not in the least contrite. "This is my crew. If you mess with them, you mess with me, and I think you should have got the idea by now what happens when you cross me."  
  
He flashed Baltor an insolent grin and turned away. Marco stuck a tongue in the direction of the ship and did the same, scurrying inside. "Come on in, Domingo," Vyse called over his shoulder. "You're gonna show me what incredible discoveries you've made, right?"  
  
Domingo's grin was waxen as he nodded slowly. "Right. Sure, Captain. Be right there." As Vyse disappeared, he shook his head ruefully. It seemed that he would have to display the imagination he usually used in situations like these.  
  
He turned to go inside, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that Lawrence had not moved. He still leaned on the railing, staring after Baltor's ship, which had already begun to be left behind as Don manoeuvred the vastly superior Delphinus northward, towards Maramba.  
  
He thought about going over there to talk to him-he'd had a rough time, after all-but decided to keep his peace instead. He had no idea what had passed between the silent helmsman and the cut-throat black pirate, but Domingo was certain it had not boded well. Best to let the man sort it out for himself, or else talk to Vyse or Fina.  
  
He shrugged, and continued on inside. He was probably worrying over nothing. It wasn't as if he couldn't trust his companion or anything.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
NEXT: Robinson spent years of solitude in the Dark Rift. But since his rescue, he's finding that after that kind of torment, you can't just walk away.  
  
A/N: Well, that wraps up the two parts of the pilot episode, I s'pose. Anyway, as the above sentence has already announced, the next 'episode' will focus on Robinson and Polly. And while I'm at it, any votes as to whom the chapter after that should feature? Any favourites? Anyway, cheers and, as always, r/r, por favor! 


	3. Whispers in the dark

A/N: Never have I seen so many reviews on a fic of mine, I must say! Thanks a lot, you guys and sorry for the delay. This summer has been quite stressful and unpleasant, but getting better now that my vacation is coming up!  
  
Anyway, a few things: Yeah, I guess Vyse does seem a bit out of character. Better keep an eye on that. Also, I was trying to get a 'london street urchin' voice for Marco (Always though that Valua looked like industrial Britain)  
  
Finally, this chapter is more of a drama than the comedy adventure of the first two episodes. Hope you like it anyway and whether you do or not, the humour and adventure will be back next episode. Cheers!  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
Episode Three: Whispers in the Dark  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
As life-shattering catastrophes went, it didn't really take all that much time to unfold.  
  
He and his crewmates had plunged adventurously into the great and daunting Dark Rift, heedless of the warnings of the older (and somewhat wiser) sea dogs and the pleas of their womenfolk. There was nothing that could have turned them back. When the untold wealth of nations beckoning from just beyond the Rift, there were few indeed who could have quenched his thirst for glory and adventure. Even Polly and little Annie.  
  
So they'd entered the rift, all five of them, Robinson, Max, Haraam, Razor and Kingsley, leaving behind friends and kin alike. They coasted for days therein, doors and portholes bolted up against the swarms of strange and frightening fish with which this strange new world teemed. At least, it seemed like days. They experienced neither night nor day, just an endless dusk, like late afternoon twilight hidden by heavy storm-clouds, promising a downpour which never came. And all the while, the five had regarded in silence the numerous sunken hulks of ships belonging to adventurers more luckless than they.  
  
The worst were the portals. How many there were, they never really counted. It was all Kingsley could do to keep his eyes fixed straight ahead as they sailed from one great grotto to another with the shimmering walls of the passages swirling around them like a monstrous kaleidoscope . And when they'd traversed one portal, they found a grotto almost exactly like it just beyond, with perhaps three more portals leading nowhere.  
  
Once, they'd happened upon a chamber that was markedly different from the rest. It was pitch-black, lit only by the glow of a hundred black stones. The idea of a completely black stone giving out any sort of light at all was curious, to say the least, and yet when Haraam and Robinson had ventured outside and examined the spectacle for themselves, there it was. They were moonstones. They must have been, although it was unclear from which moon they had fallen. Haraam had frequently come across red stones as they fell in the deserts through which he had roamed with his family before seeking a life in the sky, and a silver one had once fallen on Robinson's home island when he was very young. But black moonstones? Where could they have fallen from?  
  
For sure, the mystery had taken their minds off of their disorienting surroundings, but the next chamber held something which jerked their minds firmly back to this alien world.  
  
They only knew it was there, that cursed serpent, when it closed its great, needle teeth on the bow and, with a deft twist of its neck, had sent the little boat hurtling end-over-end through the air. And when they stopped tumbling, there was only time enough for Kingsley to regain his firm grip on the wheel and for Max and Robinson to establish that Razor had struck the bulkhead a little too hard and broken his neck in the tumble before the thing came at them again.  
  
And it had hurled them as a huskra throws a toy across a field, again and again. Each time they'd tried to speed away, deluding themselves that their cheap junk-heap could outrun a creature to which they must have seemed little more than a light snack. Even when the creature's enthusiasm had torn one of the walls of the bridge clean off, even as Robinson watched Haraam and Max tumble out of the injured ship and plummet out of sight to their deaths, he still thought, in a manic, desperate fashion, they could somehow still escape.  
  
He was still thinking of what he would say when he was reunited with a stern-faced Polly when the sudden downward tilt of the ship and Kingsley's ashen face told him beyond a shadow of a doubt it would be quite some time before he would have to endure a bawling-out from her.  
  
Perhaps forever.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
The power of the dream was enough to jerk him back into wakefulness, it was so vivid. He lay there, staring in blank terror into the darkness of the bedroom. For a moment, the ceiling was the rotting timbers of a shipwreck and his duvet, ragged sailcloth. Then his eyes adjusted as true alertness returned, and the vision receded with the last remnants of sleep. And suddenly, the room wasn't so dark; a faint, orange light spilled into the room in a thin line from the closed shutters at one end.  
  
He kicked the covers off of him and swung his legs off of the bed. For a few moments, he sat on its edge, rubbing his temples with his thumbs, widened eyes staring into the vanishing darkness of the room he shared with his wife, at the back of the tavern of which she was hostess.  
  
Then he got unsteadily to his feet and shuffled over the shuttered window, skin crawling with every step through the darkened room until he was close enough to fling open the shutters and let the crisp early morning sunlight stream joyfully in, banishing the darkness.  
  
Beneath his thick, bushy beard, Robinson smiled. Then he pulled on a clean shirt and shuffled out of the bedroom. It was a whole two minutes before the bleakness with which he shared his days set in once more.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Robinson?"  
  
It was a little while before he even registered that someone had called his name. He looked up sharply, startled, from his breakfast of bacon, eggs and sausages, looking around quizzically for the source of the voice.  
  
"Robinson!" The voice came again, stronger this time, more impatient. This time, melancholy stupor or no, it was unmistakeable, and he grinned sheepishly at the speaker.  
  
"Sorry, luv," he said scratching the back of his neck. "Mind was elsewhere."  
  
From the kitchen of the Crescent Island tavern, Robinson's long-suffering, albeit infinitely patient wife, Polly, frowned and fixed him with a quizzical, of worried, look. "I was going to ask if the sausages are a little overdone, since you stopped chewing them awhile ago-"  
  
Robinson hastily swallowed and coughed. "Sorry, Pol, guess I must have forgot what I was-"  
  
"-But I guess I should really be asking what's going on beneath that matted mop of yours. So, here goes. What's on your mind, Rob?"  
  
Her quizzical visage metamorphosed subtly into the Look. He stared stupidly at her, not certain how to respond. Which was the usual reaction he had whenever she fixed him with That Accursed Look. Finally, he shook himself and answered, stiffly: "Nothing, Pol. Nothing at all. You're worrying over nothing."  
  
He bent over his meal again, and succeeded in skewering a rasher of bacon and bringing it halfway to his mouth before the space behind his chair filled itself with her presence so silently that he hadn't even been aware she'd left the kitchen behind the bar. And then her hands were on his shoulders, and her voice was by his ear.  
  
"You haven't been sleeping," came her low voice, freezing him into place. He stared down at his half-finished meal for lack of a better place to look. "You're not awake, but you don't rest. You just toss and turn all night, murmuring things that I can't make out. That doesn't sound like 'nothing' to me."  
  
Without thinking, he shifted in his chair, poised to turn on her and ask 'how the hell do you know what goes on in my head?' But when he completed the movement, bringing himself face to face with her, the snarl did not leave his lips. He saw the weary look on her round, pleasant face. The bags under her eyes from countless nights without rest. Always rising early and retiring late to a bed already half-occupied by a husband constantly restless, shifting all night, keeping her from her own rest. While she could do nothing but lie still and pray to all the moons that whatever demons he'd brought with him when he returned from the Rift would just leave him the hell alone.  
  
Strung out and on edge. Because of him.  
  
"I-I-" he mouthed, but the words would not come so readily, now that he saw her, really saw her for the first time in awhile-  
  
He rose from the table and hastily gathered up his meal, gently shaking himself from his wife's grip. He grinned at her, but it came out as an unintended grimace. "I'm sorry, I-" He took a breath and looked directly at her, forcing confidence into his voice. "It's-kind of stuffy in here. I'm going outside for a bit. The Delphinus should be back soon, and Captain Vyse'll be wanting me to help refit it for another run."  
  
He turned away from her and strode purposefully toward the door of the pub, taking care not to look back for fear of catching a glance of his wife's face.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
He sat on the forward lip of Crescent Island, just above the pond, and stared out at the horizon, his empty plate beside him and his strong legs dangling over the edge, not doing much. Remembering, mostly. Or counting clouds. Sometimes he would even shift his gaze down to facilitate a studious contemplation of his navel. Anything, really, so long as his mind remained occupied.  
  
"She's only worried about you," a soft, musical voice came from behind him, its inherent tenderness jerking him into alertness but not startling him. "She's your wife, Robinson. She loves you, and hates to see you like this."  
  
He turned his head and somehow managed a weak grin. "Thanks for the kind words, but as much as I appreciate it-It's really none of your business, Fina."  
  
Fina smiled faintly. He hadn't found it in him to snap at her, regardless of whatever black mood he happened to be enwrapped in at the time. And he wasn't alone in that sentiment. Fina, the third in command of Vyse's crew of Blue Rogues, garnered the affection of virtually everyone on Crescent Island with little effort on her part beyond that which she needed to be who she was. Their respect, she had earned through her actions almost from the day she had first fallen from the stars.  
  
As if he hadn't spoken, she glided up to him and sat down beside him, adjusting her blue bandanna. Robinson shifted uncomfortably but said nothing, returning his gaze to the horizon. He did his best to ignore her unwelcome intrusion, although he was far too polite to simply get up and walk away.  
  
"No, I guess it's not," she conceded, after a brief silence had settled between the two. "But Polly's right. You have been-distant and troubled, to all of us, not just her. It's not our business, but when it starts affecting your work as a crewman, then it will be."  
  
He remained inscrutable, staring out in silence out over the horizon. She frowned, and not for the first time, she wished that Vyse or Aika were there, rather than in the skies with the Delphinus on a mission. She couldn't talk to people like this, not like they could.  
  
"Robinson, we're-"  
  
"It won't affect the way I do my job." The assertion was dead and flat, charged with pent up emotion. "I am handling it."  
  
Fina shook her head, but inside, she was secretly apprehensive. He had never heard that tone from him before. A sign that she was succeeding in bringing whatever demons he carried with him to the surface, where they could be exorcised?  
  
"Robinson, you were in the Rift for years. You can't just walk away from that straight back into a normal life." She swung her legs and grew thoughtful. "After I lost my home and my people, it took me awhile to deal with that loss. But I had Vyse and Aika and Guilder and the rest to help me deal. You've been going along pretending like nothing ever happened and you can't-"  
  
He turned to her, startling her into silence by the suddenness of the movement and the heat in his eyes. "I. Am. Dealing," he growled, enunciating each word and bombarding her with them for maximum clarity, his politeness toward her forgotten for perhaps the first time ever. "I am fine. I feel better with each passing day. I can deal with this on my own." He hugged his knees to his chest, but kept her fixed in his gaze. "I'm the same as always. I don't need you or Pol or anyone else always on my case about something which doesn't affect me in the least!"  
  
The last echoes of the shout that his voice had become faded into the wind, leaving a stunned silence.  
  
"I-" Fina began, but what she had wanted to say failed to materialise in the face of Robinson's fierce, taut glare. Then she composed herself and got to her feet abruptly. "The reason I came down here was to warn you. Tonight we'll be having another blackout drill. We don't need to worry about the Valuans so much anymore, but we should practice anyway, in case any Black Pirates come too close for comfort."  
  
Robinson had already turned his gaze back to the horizon had erected his barrier of silent solitude.  
  
"Just so you know," Fina murmured before turning away from him and making her way down the path back to her quarters.  
  
*Don't shut us out, Robinson* she silently pleaded. *I know what you're going through. And I know how much it hurts just to think about it. But if you don't share some of the pain, after years of going insane on your own in that place, you'll go nuts. Just let us in. Let us in*  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
When at last Kingsley passed on, Robinson buried him near to Razor in the damp, mossy turf outside of their ship's final resting place. He'd placed makeshift headstones for Max and Haraam as well, even though he'd never found their bodies.  
  
It had taken awhile for him to die. He, like Robinson, had survived the crash, but only just. And the damage to his body, both internal and external, had been so tremendous that recovery was out of the question. He knew that as well as Robinson, which was why his last few days of life had seemed longer. And all through every hour of them, Robinson had stayed with him, begging, pleading and praying to all of the moons for a miracle, any miracle. At first, the boon he begged was for none of this to have ever been, for all of them to be magically returned to Esperanza, where they would collapse into the arms of their wives and girls and never sail again.  
  
Then, as Kingsley dimmed, his prayers were for them to be transported back to a few minutes before the attack, so that they could turn around at once and, as before, return to town and go no further, ever again.  
  
Still later, the prayer was for the moons to change the world merely so that Kingsley had survived the crash. And so it had gone, with each prayer becoming simpler and simpler in the vain hope that, if he made it easy enough, the moons would answer, and grant him his miracle.  
  
But no such miracle came. And with Kingsley gone, he was alone. Alone under a permanently overcast sky, with a thousand breeds of monstrous fish and one murderous mutant eel for company. And the years had passed, one after the other, until hope gave in to boredom, which gave into despair which in turn gave in to nothingness, an impenetrable, mindless bleakness in which he knew, deep down, he would remain---  
  
---Forever.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
This time, when he woke from his memory-turned-nightmare, it was with a violent shudder and a gasp. In the darkness, his eyes roved frantically, searching for any source of light which would comfort him, drag him back to familiarity. He found none.  
  
Desperate, he leapt up from his bed and stumbled in the dark toward the blinds, or at least where a calmer part of his mind told him they were. Trembling fingers fumbled with the latch, before he roared his frustration and jerked it free. The blinds swung outward on well-oiled hinges, and he gripped the sill with both hands and leaned forward---  
  
---and saw nothing. No torches, or night-beacons. And the clouds he'd seen that morning had thickened, covering the night sky in an impenetrable blanket, snuffing out the light of stars and red moon alike.  
  
It was pitch black.  
  
With a strangled cry, he clambered over the windowsill and tumbled out onto the ground beside the tavern. Scrambling frantically to his feet, he swore, louder this time, and first lurched, then ran forward, the direction did not matter. At one point he passed the living quarters. He must have done, because he vaguely registered a door banging open and someone shouting an indistinct challenge at him, but he paid it no mind, and ran on, until, as was inevitable on a place called Crescent Island, he ran out of earth to run on.  
  
Only an impeccable sense of equilibrium honed through years of sailing enabled him to bear up and stop dead before he ran clean off the edge. There may as well have been no land, with the dark midnight sky filling his vision from horizon to horizon the only thing he could see as he perched on the very edge of the forward lip of the island, above the pond, right where he'd been sitting earlier on in the day.  
  
Yes. Yes, he'd done this before. Stood on the edge of the land in the Dark Rift, wrestling with the madness of solitude. After Kingsley and the rest had died, and the prospect of an eternity alone in that wretched place had seemed too much to bear. But always, he stepped back, coward that he was. But this wasn't the Rift, surely?  
  
Wasn't it? He'd dreamt so much, so much. Dreams of light and companionship and security. But they seemed to have left him, again, replaced by this cursed blackness. Perhaps that had been the dream, and this was merely the cruel reality reasserting himself after taunting him with a vision of what may have been, however vivid it had seemed.  
  
But he had his wits about him now. Oh, yes he did. No more dreams. No more false hopes and useless prayers.  
  
One his feet shifted of his own accord, closer to the edge than it already was. Yes. This time, he would have the courage.  
  
"Robinson!" The voice cut through his black cloud, and he vaguely recognised the name it called as his own. He ignored it. It had done this to him before, the Rift had, and he'd be damned if he'd succumb to it again. As if he wasn't damned enough already, of course.  
  
"Robinson, WAIT!" came the voice again, more persistent and closer. Against his will, he pivoted again, without moving away from the edge of land that was the last frontier between dark torment and blessed oblivion. It was a girl, of some sort, but he didn't know her. Her blonde hair and nightshirt billowed in the wind that had sprung up as she called out to him again. "Stop it! Stay where you are! Don't move!" He stared at this new apparition, but made no reply, and it wasn't long before she'd moved a little closer, up along the path skirting the pond, and was calling out to him again. "Robinson, you're not in the Rift anymore! You're not living like that anymore! Please don't throw it all away. Not now, not that you have a second shot."  
  
For a moment, he stared stupidly at her. Then he laughed, a bitter, nasty laugh. Hell, she'd almost seemed real! Just like that morning. If THAT had even existed. The apparition stepped forward, flanked by several others of the Delphinus crew - He didn't know them, either, did he? - but all it took was another tiny step backward to stop her dead in her tracks. She spoke again, and that sounded real as well, as did the echoing pleas and cajoling of the assembled crew assigned to the base while the Delphinus was away. But he tuned it all out. No. Not this time.  
  
"Robinson."  
  
The voice was soft, yet his ears picked it out of the wind and voices of the crew. He froze, all thoughts of the Edge dispelled in an instant.  
  
A figure made her way beside Fina. In his maddened state, he vaguely recalled that she had a name, although he couldn't recall it. Not that he needed to. He knew full well who she was. He'd seen her every night and every day for all those years in the accursed rift.  
  
Always. Always calling him back from the edge of the island in the rift. Calling him away from blessed oblivion, back into the solitary hell of the rift.  
  
"Robinson, please, listen to me," she was saying, in a steady, gentle tone, slowly walking toward him. "I don't know what you think you're seeing, but it's not that place. It's not the rift. In the morning the sun'll come up, the Delphinus will be back and it'll be another normal day. Don't do it, Robinson. Not now when you're so close."  
  
Yes. He remembered her now. False hope, she was, then as now.  
  
"You're-you're lying," he said in a ragged whisper, swaying slightly. "No sunrise. Never a sunrise. Just dreams, always just dreams, taken away by the dark."  
  
Now she was right in front of him, arms clasped in front of her apron. Now he could see her face, clearly, a round visage framed by dark red hair and a full figure, some might say too full, although he certainly never would. And those eyes stared straight into his. "Not this time, Robinson, or ever. There'll be a sunrise, and we'll watch it together. Every single morning until you understand. Understand that you don't have to jump at shadows anymore. That I love you, and I won't let you go again."  
  
He stared at her, still swaying at the edge of the island, just him and her. Him and her. Before---it had felt like just him, but now.  
  
He sighed, and believed her. Then he fell, for what seemed a boundless eternity, forward away from the edge until her quick embrace snapped him up before he could hit the ground---  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
"I think you handled that well, personally."  
  
Fina smiled weakly at Ilchymis as he made to refill her mug of coffee, and waved the kettle away. She and the alchemist were partners in a midnight raid on the tavern's coffee store, much needed after the drama of the previous hour. "Thanks, but it wasn't me who talked him down, remember? If it weren't for Polly, we'd be a sailor short when Vyse and Aika got back."  
  
"You kept him from jumping long enough for her to turn up. And in any case, there wasn't all that much you or even Vyse could have done anyway. She was the only one could have finished what you started, and she did, quite admirably so." He brandished the kettle enticingly. "Sure you don't want anymore?"  
  
Fina's reply came as a yawn as she rose and stretched. "I'm done. Still want to grab some sleep before the Delphinus comes home. They should have been back this afternoon. I wonder what's kept them? I hope Lawrence and Domingo haven't got into too much trouble." Then she cast a glare of mock reproach over the Valuan. "And hadn't you better do the same? Vyse'll need restocking when they ship comes in."  
  
Ilchymis grimaced. "Don't remind me-er, Vice-Captain, sir-I swear I don't know how small a gang can devour so much in the way of supplies on so short a trip."  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
Robinson awoke to darkness. He felt a moment of gripping panic and made as if to leap from his bed. But then he felt warm arms tightening gently around him in the dark, sleepy breath on his neck and a whisper in the dark by his ear, saying: "Robinson-its four in the morning-go back to sleep, love, hmm--?"  
  
And, suddenly, he was home once again.  
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
NEXT EPISODE: The crew relaxes with some spare time, except for Brabham, who is haunted by an elusive squeak that threatens to send the perfectionist engineer over the edge into insanity. 


End file.
